The ball kept going in the basket for me, and our whole team was fast-breaking and scoring at will.
I didn't even know what I was wearing because everything I owned was in that basket, taunting me.
I threw the now-bloody wad of toilet paper into the waste basket behind me, next to the sink, and got a fresh wad.
Fresh berries spilled out of a sugar waffle basket, reminding me how cleansing whipped cream and ripe fruit can be after a meal.
As I was wheeling my tools away from the house, the daughter thrust an old wooden bushel basket at me. "Take this," she said.
On Easter Sunday, my friend's mom always made an Easter basket for me, too, with those plastic eggs opening onto jelly beans, temporary tattoos, silvered high-eared bunnies.
The small-caps in this new basket remind me of what a small-cap represented when I started in this business with Robert W. Baird: with a market cap of at least $150 million and meet certain liquidity requirements.
(They do want a basket, trust me).
The driver tried to select a basket for me.
And I never wanted a gun in my house but the sight of my son laying there saying, 'Mommy I'm scared.' That's when you realize all you got is a wicker trash basket between me and anybody that comes in this room.
